


stick the landing

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Also kind of, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, adam and ronan are dating in this, and have decided to share that hyperfixation with the world, blue is short and for once this works out in her favor, gansey is their coach, hello welcome to a gymnastics au, the long story short is i have watched a lot of gymnastics in quarantine, they're also training partners, you read correctly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25320973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: "Gymnastics 101 baby: fly high and stick the landing." -Tim Daggett, every meet he commentatesAdam is shocked when he’s not the one who has to unlock the gym that morning. He’s got his conditioning plan emailed to him from Whelk (blergh), and his checklist of goals for the day. The national camp before the actual national competition is in two weeks. He’s supposed to be throwing two new skills on each apparatus.Fuck that shit.
Relationships: Adam Parrish & Blue Sargent, Ronan Lynch & Adam Parrish, Ronan Lynch & Blue Sargent, Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 24
Kudos: 116





	stick the landing

**Author's Note:**

> *slaps roof of this fic* this baby can fit so much hyperfixation in it
> 
> also like kinda discusses the general situation of USA gymnastics culture but in a general sense

Adam is shocked when he’s not the one who has to unlock the gym that morning. He’s got his conditioning plan emailed to him from Whelk (blergh), and his checklist of goals for the day. The national camp before the actual national competition is in two weeks. He’s supposed to be throwing two new skills on each apparatus. 

Fuck that shit. 

Adam isn’t an idiot. His goal isn’t to injure himself right before nationals. His actual goal is to hit three new skills _total_. Not fucking twelve.

“Look who decided to show up.” That’s Ronan Lynch, sipping an abominable protein shake and slowly grumbling and turning on lights in the gym. “You see Whelk’s bullshit plan?” 

“You’re here early.” That’s all Adam can come up with. He’s usually the only one actually here by five a.m. Ronan’s the only other male elite gymnast here, and he doesn’t have to help with training the little ones, so he usually comes in later. He also snores like a motherfucker and hates that Adam's alarm goes off at four, when he does sleep over at the witches. Blue usually gets here a little bit later, just because she knows who she is as a person and coming in early doesn’t work for her. She’s always here by six, though. 

“It’s almost nationals, baby.” Ronan takes another swing, shrugs out of his sweatpants. “Ready to get started?” 

“I’m not doing arms first.” Adam and Ronan are very different gymnasts. Ronan’s naturally built—he’s criminally good at rings and can block like no one fucking else on vault and floor. Adam is slighter, is meant for the all around, but he’s a swinger at heart. He survives rings because he’s so light it’s easier to hold his body up, and tumbles great for the same reason. Fuck rings though, seriously. 

“No. He was specific about his order. It’s time for some fucking cardio bullshit. Then rope climbs and shit. The usual,” Ronan says. “He really wants to tear my hands up and then make me do high bar? Bullshit.” 

“Oh, you’re doing high bar today?” Adam wanted a nice long time alone with the high bar. The fucking Liukin is evading him—he’s got a twisting problem. Ugh. Whatever. He can share when it’s Ronan’s family that owns the whole gym. And with his boyfriend. 

“Yeah. I’m going to need you to do the mat for me because I’ve got to try the Shaham again,” Ronan says, makes a face. “I’m not meant to tumble like that.” 

“I need you to mat for me, too—it works out.” Adam just starts stretching out. 

“Fucking Liukin?” Ronan guesses, cracks his knuckles. Adam nods. “Jesus. When are they going to give that up?” 

“Never,” Adam says mournfully. “Let’s get going. We’ve only got nine hours before the kids come in after school.” 

“And only one before the maggot rolls in,” Ronan says. “And fucking Whelk.”

And they start work. Adam doesn’t mind having Ronan around—it’s actually kind of nice. They’ve been training partners for years, dating for one. Years and years and years ago, Adam was in some kind of rec class field trip from a social services program, and Whelk and Niall Lynch had taken one look at how he tumbled and stuck him in a program in the gym. 

He hasn’t really left. He’s lucky—the only thing you really need for gymnastics other than the competition gear is like… grips. And he doesn’t really use them where he doesn’t have to. The rest is just equipment that’s in the gym and the gym only and hard work. Anyone can condition. It fucking sucks, but it’s what he did for years. Private time and coaching sessions are a lot of money, but he didn’t have those until he got good enough where he didn’t need to pay for them.

“Ew. How are you gross already?” That’s Blue, wandering in. “The moms sent breakfast for you, Adam.” 

“Yes. A break,” Ronan says, rolls off the mat and just stays there, panting. “Blue, Whelk is trying to kill us.” 

“Yeah. He’s a dickwad. I put it in your cubby,” she says. “Seph is a much better coach.” It’s true. Whelk has never heard of pacing in his life, and it’s a miracle Adam has only had one surgery on his knee in his career. I mean, he’s just getting started as a senior, but whatever. Blue is going on nineteen and has had one injury, has been a senior elite for three years. Girls turn senior the year they’re going to turn sixteen, boys the year they’re going to turn eighteen. Spot the difference?

“Too bad she knows too much about beam and not enough about p bars or rings,” Ronan says. “Let’s take a break and then we’ll do swinging stuff.” 

“Better start with the mushroom race,” Adam says, sits on the floor in the cubby room. “Whelk is gonna get here soon and he’ll be mad if someone didn’t have to do the punishment workout.” 

“I can’t believe the Aglionby bastards complain about his college practices. Those are _nothing_ ,” Ronan says. They’re on Aglionby’s team, too, but Aglionby isn’t like OU or Michigan or Stanford for men’s gymnastics. They’re the only two team members on the national team, and that’s not because of Aglionby’s training, but kind of in spite of it. “Tad still thinks he should be anchoring high bar instead of you.” 

Adam just laughs. “When Tad has a double twisting double release, or even a full twisting double, then he can talk to me. Fuck, when he has a world’s medal.” 

“How are we doing the workout today?” Ronan asks. “I know you have the goobers from two until six. I was thinking of splitting it by hours—one hour of going back and forth trying to land our new skills apparatus by apparatus. We can even make it a contest or something, I don’t know. Shit just feels so tense with Whelk I want to make it fun,” Ronan says. 

“Yeah. We could go pommel, p bars, high bar, break, rings, air track for vault and floor, break, and then try out the vault and floor skills on the apparatus if he’s going to make us,” Adam says. “He’s going to be here soon.” 

“Seph is planning on starting me and the girls on tumbling after I do some conditioning, so that works,” Blue says. “I’ll be on beam and uneven bars in the afternoon.” She makes a face. She’s not a natural swinger. She is a beamer, though. She’s fearless. 

Adam and Ronan are just getting started on pommel horse when Whelk gets there. It’s like a dark cloud has appeared. 

“Straighten your goddamn knees, Lynch,” Whelk says. “You’re just a walking deduction.” 

“You’re hesitating. You need to pull in through your legs and glutes and keep the momentum going through the skill,” Adam mutters. Pommel horse is like riding a bike—the faster you go, the easier it is to keep your balance. It’s easier said than done though. 

“Your turn, Parrish,” Ronan says. He’s trying to mock his way through the skill, though. Ronan hates swinging; it’s what he and Blue bond over. 

By the time they get through pommel horse, Adam and Ronan know today is going to be a shitshow. They’re both stuck doing five hundred mushroom swings as punishment for pommel, and it looks like he’s going to let the junior boys be handled by the other coaches, will focus his energy on just Adam and Ronan. 

Beans. Their training plan just went out the window. No fun for them today.

“We’re going to high bar,” Whelk says. “I’ll work the mat for the both of you.” 

Adam and Ronan look at each other. Neither of them trust Whelk with spotting the mat—he’ll just let them hit the bar if he wants them to catch it even if it’s clear they’re not going to.

“Uh, we can spot each other,” Ronan says. 

“Nope, it wastes time,” Whelk says. “Someone stop fiddling with their grips and get up there.” Adam knows that implicit threat, that if he doesn’t he’s not going to get to use grips. 

“I’ll go,” Adam says, feels his heart sink into his stomach. 

“You’re catching the fucking Liukin today.” Whelk already sounds pissed. “There’s no goddamn reason not to. I’m sick of putting in a fucking Tkachev or Markov when you could be doing a Liukin.” 

“He’s got a twisting problem, man,” Ronan says. Adam’s problem is he twists too much to do a Liukin. He can’t get the speed right to do it. 

“You’re doing it,” Whelk says. 

Adam does not do it. What he does do is faceplant into a foam pit a lot of fucking times, get his grips taken away, and Ronan gets to move on p bars and Adam’s left to swing there and try to get it. 

He catches it once. His hands are just open sores. 

“They’re taking a break, Barry.” That’s Persephone. 

“He needs to catch two more times and do his p bars skill before he gets a break,” Whelk responds. “That’s the training plan.” 

“He’s taking a break.” Her voice leaves no room for argument. “They both are.” 

Adam and Ronan just lay down on the mats. Blue joins them. 

“What time is it?” Ronan asks. “I can’t feel my arms.” 

“Dunno. I should wrap my hands or I’m going to be scrubbing blood off the equipment for hours,” Adam says. 

“I’ll do it. Calla’s going to be pissed,” Blue says. “She and Maura are doing the toddler mommy and me class right now..” 

Adam and Ronan glance over. It’s a bunch of cute kids trying to do a somersault. Calla is glancing over at Adam though; he sighs. He’s been living with the witches for years, and he knows tonight is going to be a lecture. A lecture and a lot of fussing. 

“I’ve got blisters bigger than some of their hands,” Ronan says. “I can’t believe you finally caught a Liukin.” 

“Gotta do it twice more. He said I have to pull it at nationals,” Adam says, frowns. “No way I can catch it in a routine.” 

“Wait to see what happens at training camp. If Bo says you can’t do it, you can’t do it. No matter what Whelk says, he’s not in charge there.” You know it’s a shitshow if USA Gymnastics only barely tolerates Whelk, but honestly, Adam doesn’t give a fuck. He doesn’t have a whole lot of other options, unless he wants to join the frat boys at OU. “Bo won’t let you throw a Liukin at nationals if it’s not ready.” 

“I can’t believe you guys look forward to training camp,” Blue says. “Weirdos.” 

“Okay, to clarify—fuck the college fuck boys,” Adam says. “But it’s better than Whelk right before camp.” Blue is wrapping Adam’s hands methodically. “How was tumbling?”

“Good. My double double is looking nice and my vault is solid,” Blue says. “Fixed my block problem.” 

“That’s what we like to hear, maggot,” Ronan says, offers a high five before he groans. His upper arms are all bruised form the p bars. “I hate swinging.”

“I’m about to hate swinging,” Adam says, even though he loves swinging. He _loves_ swinging, flying around the high bar and across the parallel bars, and around the pommel horse, and even flying across the floor, but not when his hands are torn to shreds. 

“Um, you’re not gripping shit,” Blue says. 

“They’re bandaged. It’s fine,” Adam shoots back. “There’s no way I’m not training my best events right before selection camp.” 

“Break’s over.” That’s Whelk.

:: ::

By the time Adam and Blue are in the car, they’re both exhausted.

“You both need a shower,” Calla says. “Have you both done your ice baths and muscle care already?” 

“Yes,” Blue says. Adam doesn’t say anything at all. He barely finished his training session in time to rinse out and change his clothes and bandages before helping with the juniors and rec classes all evening. 

“Adam…” Maura says. Adam is too goddamn tired for a lecture.

“Didn’t have time,” Adam says. “Had to set up for the kids, and I was struggling with training today so it went late. I was gonna do it when I got home.” 

“Whelk tied Adam to the horizontal bar again,” Blue says, like they weren’t all there anyway. “Even after he caught the Liukin three times.” 

“Blue, shut up,” Adam says. “I had to break in new grips.” The best way to break in new grips is to put weights around your ankles and swing around the bar a bunch. But he already has three pairs of broken-in grips. And he wasn’t wearing them when this happened, when the moms were busy running beam drills with the kids. 

“We’ll take a look at your hands when we get home,” Persephone says calmly. That’s not a good omen—she always speaks calmly, but there’s steel there. 

“Do you know the full national team yet?” Adam asks Blue, tries to distract everyone. 

“Yeah. We have a group chat—it’s about who you’d expect. It’s a year out from the olympics, so the younger ones are so excited and nervous that it’s blowing up. It’s nice seeing them excited for team camp,” Blue says, smiles a little. It’s only been a few years since changes started happening on the women’s side of USA gymnastics, and Blue is rightfully still wary. “Four person team for Tokyo is going to be brutal.” 

“Tell me about it. At least you have four people, four events. We have four people, six events. No room for any kind of specialization here. It’s even got Lynch swinging again,” Adam says, shakes his head. 

“I know. I can’t believe he’s doing all around again,” Blue says, as they’re pulling into the driveway. “I finally have someone to bitch about bars to. My body was not meant to swing and gymnastics just needs to deal with it.” 

Adam manages to haul his body out of the car, is planning on sneaking off to roll out his muscles and sink into an ice bath, but he’s taking off his shoes and all three moms are in front of him. 

“Kitchen, please,” Calla says. “Blue, go shower.” 

“I need to roll out,” Adam tries, but he can tell by the look on their faces that that one isn’t going to fly. 

“You can do that after,” Maura says, which is how Adam ends up in the kitchen. He can’t look at them as the tape is cut through and his hands are exposed. It doesn’t matter how long he swings bars or how much his hands callous—they can always tear right back open. The NBC commentators love to speculate about why he sometimes uses grips and sometimes doesn’t, like they don’t know what Whelk is like. 

“Adam,” is all Maura says, and then there’s some collective sighing. “We need you to explain.” 

“I needed to catch a Liukin.” That’s all Adam can say, because that’s all there is to it. He’s had all season to put it into his routine, but he can’t fucking do it. It’s his fuck up. 

“Where were your grips?” Calla asks. Adam just looks down, and that’s answer enough. It doesn’t matter that he’s almost twenty-one, that he’s an adult—he feels like the same scared kid crying because he got tied up on the bars at age ten. He’s stopped crying by now, but it still hurts the same. 

“Let’s patch up your hands. I don’t think you’re going to be swinging for a few days at least,” Maura says, is rubbing ointment into the open sores and tears. “These look bad, Adam.”

“You know that it happens. Ronan’s got bruises up and down his arms from the parallel bars today,” Adam says, because equating what Whelk does to him to Ronan somehow makes it easier to swallow. “It wasn’t a good day in the gym.” 

“Blue had a tough day on beam,” Persephone says. “But those days happen. She still trains with mats and pits and appropriate support.” 

“I don’t know if these are going to be healed up by training camp,” Calla admits. “You need to take it easy. Focus on vault and floor for now, and on giving your body a rest.” 

“That’s not in the training plan. I’ll wrap my hands as well as I can, but you know I’m not going to be off the bars. They’re my best shot,” Adam says. 

“We’ll talk to him,” Calla says, like she always says. But she can’t police Whelk all the time, not when she and Maura are running all of the pre-school classes and managing the paperwork for Declan. 

“We’ll get dinner going. Roll out and then there will be an ice bath ready,” Maura says, as his hands are wrapped up as best as they can be.

“You need to take care of yourself, Adam,” Persephone says. Adam has a feeling she’s going to be saying that a lot in the coming weeks.

:: ::

The day they leave for training camp is a mess. Their flight to Colorado isn’t until noon, so they still have a morning session—it’s probably the worst it’s been in a while. The last few weeks have felt like a downslope. Whelk has been running them ragged; Adam can barely grip the bar anymore, even with his hands wrapped to high heavens, and Ronan’s shoulder is a mess from a bad fall off of the parallel bars. But they have to keep going. They’ve got their new skills in their routines (except for the fucking Liukin).

“Mr. Stark, I’m not feeling too good,” Ronan says, when Blue wanders over. The good news is that Adam and Ronan have reached the level of disappointment that Whelk is currently terrorizing the junior boys and can’t be assed to deal with them. Ronan’s got a fat pack of ice on his shoulder, groans when he has to adjust it. 

“You look fucking terrible,” Blue says. “Seriously. Bo is going to throw a bitch fit.” It’s a new thing, the women’s and men’s teams having training camps in the same place. Adam’s relieved. There’s more accountability on both ends. 

“What do we have left to do?” Adam asks Ronan. He can’t even take the tape off of his hands by himself, can barely hold a pencil when he needs to sign stuff. 

“We’ve been avoiding the bars, man,” Ronan says. “Release day on high bar, three routines each on pommel horse and p bars.” 

Adam and Ronan look at each other. They come to the decision to grit it out. Just get it over with. Whelk can’t pull the same stuff at the training camp. He’s not in charge of the training plan there. 

“I’ll spot for you. I’m done for the day,” Blue says. “You should both guard your arms—your bruises are nasty.” 

“Whelk has our guards,” Adam says tonelessly. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t really feel it anymore.”

By the time they’re at the airport, Declan and Persephone and Calla and Whelk talking about something or another, Adam is ready for a nap. Ronan is napping, his stupid heavy head on Adam’s shoulder, making it impossible for Adam to sleep. He can’t even really use his phone, not with his hands taped like they are.

“You look cute in matching clothes,” Blue says, snaps a picture for her instagram. She doesn’t understand why both Adam and Ronan refuse to make social media, but whatever. She has double the followers because the only way their fans can get Adam and Ronan content is through her. They’re all already in the Team USA gear, because they have to be, and so Adam and Ronan do match.

“Do you know your roommate yet?” Adam asks, and Blue shakes her head. Adam just sighs. He looks over to where it looks like Calla is giving Whelk a lecture. He’s not just Adam’s coach, he coaches Aglionby’s college teams. He makes so much money off of being an asshole that it pisses Adam off sometimes. 

“Are you going to talk to Bo?” Blue asks. “I know Declan doesn’t like Whelk. The team also kind of imploded last season and he doesn’t like paying that kind of money for those kind of results.” 

“I can’t, Blue,” Adam says. “Not right now, not right before nationals. Maybe when the season’s over.” Whelk is a bastard, but there’s something to be said for the results. Adam’s got two individual world’s medals. That’s something. Right?

“You can still talk to him. Everyone knows he’s a dickbag,” Blue says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You can barely hold onto a pencil, much less the bar. Shit needs to change, or you might not make it to worlds.” 

Adam doesn’t know what to say to that. He knows it’s true; there’s only five spots, and if he’s injured, he’s easily going to be passed over. But he’s not injured. He just needs five days to let his hands heal up after nationals. 

“We’ll see how it goes. I’m going to see what they say, when they look at my hands. I’m just tired, Blue,” Adam admits. 

Ronan, still asleep, manages to snore his agreement. 

Sitting in a plane seat for hours and then a car for a few more does nothing to help their sore muscles, and Adam is rearing to go by the time they’re finally at the training facility. Everything feels tense—he had rolled out at the airport while they were waiting for the car, but he still feels off when he finally gets to get out of the van.

Bo Xiao is waiting. He’s a tall man, surprising because he’s an ex-gymnast, and because he’s from a family of gymnasts. He went to the ‘92 and ‘96 games, his parents both competing for China before they came to the States. There’s a reason he’s the head coach of the national team, why he picks the national team. He’s also a genuinely good person, and a good coach. He smiles when he greets Adam, Blue, and Ronan, not as much so as when he shakes hands with Whelk.

“You know the drill,” Bo says, as they’re throwing duffels and suitcases out of the back of the van. “Physical, go make a mess of your room, and we’ll meet up for dinner and a short meeting and training tonight.” 

“Are we already talking business?” Ronan says, rolls his shoulder and grimaces as he picks up his bag. Bo definitely notices, which is not what he wants to see from the top rings worker in the country. 

“Keep up, Lynch,” Bo says, all good-natured. He turns to the group as a whole.

“We do have some news—we have a new assistant coach, too. He’s looking to take over a head coach position somewhere when he’s not helping with national camps, and he’s good.”

“Who is this new wonderkid?” Ronan says, suddenly bright-eyed. Adam knows he’s not going to get to nap with Ronan in the room. The bastard slept for most of their trip, but he won’t let Adam catnap in the room. He knows it.

“Richard Gansey. He competed in England for a while,” Bo says. “You’ll meet him later tonight as he’s running some errands right now. Coach’s meeting is in fifteen minutes, so the rest of you need to head that way.” 

He waits for everyone else to leave before he looks at Ronan’s taped up shoulder and Adam’s hands and just sighs. 

“This is starting to become a problem. If anything happens, I won’t hesitate to eject him from the camp,” Bo says, picks up Adam’s suitcase. “And I’m coming with to this physical. I need to see what’s going on with your hands.” 

“It’s nothing big. Just normal wear and tear from the bar,” Adam tries to say nonchalantly. 

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Bo says. “Is he still on his insanity quest for the Liukin?” 

“Yup,” Ronan says. 

“You don’t get to talk when you’re on an insanity quest for all around,” Bo says. “This madness with Tokyo is truly making hell freeze over.” 

“Blame the FIG,” Adam quips. “We’ll see you at dinner, Blue?” 

Blue just nods, eager to head off to be with the women’s team, to get a break and to no doubtly talk about what’s going on with Whelk and the national team. 

Bo is not happy when the team physician unwraps Adam’s hands. Ronan’s getting his shoulder worked on, and he just hears the swearing. 

“I didn’t know you had that in you,” Ronan grunts out. “You rarely swear, Xiao.” 

“They’re not that bad. They look worse than they feel,” Adam tries to argue, but he’s asked to straighten them out and he winces. “I’ve been able to train on them.” 

“You’re not swinging tonight. You’re just doing tumbling and maybe a vault or two,” Bo says. “They need time to heal, they look infected.” 

“You know that’s not going to happen,” Adam says quietly. There’s a lot that goes unsaid at these camps. One of which is how the line between the personal and team coach isn’t clear. Who outranks who, and all that. 

“Tonight isn’t meant to be a full training session. We’ll keep everyone to tumbling,” Bo says. “We’ll reevaluate your hands tomorrow.”

:: ::

“Come on. Up on the bar.” That’s Whelk, and Adam feels the eyes of the team and Bo on him. His hands are taped up so much he can barely move them. “Show them the new routine.”

This is just supposed to be a baseline test. It’s not really a meet, but everyone is doing every event so the coaches can see where they’re at. Adam is not supposed to be doing all around. 

“We understand what the planned routine is, we don’t need to see it,” Bo says. “His hands are injured, so we don’t want him doing a routine.”

“His hands are not injured. He’s doing it.” And so Adam is up on the bar, but on his first release he knows his hands can’t bend enough to regrasp it and he hits the mat.

“That’s enough.” Bo’s voice is as serious as Adam’s ever heard it. Adam doesn’t even realize his hands are bleeding through the tape until he sees it. “Barry, a word.”

They go into an office. Adam is left standing on the mat. His hands are still kind of bleeding, but he feels like something awful is about to happen. 

“Let’s see the damage,” Ronan says. Adam just holds out his hands, and Ronan starts unwrapping the tape. It hurts. 

“Oh, gosh,” Brett, the oldest member and undisputable team captain says. “You were swinging on that?” His hands are torn to shreds, layers and layers of skin just gone and infected. “Maybe go see the doctors or something.” 

“Yeah.” That’s someone kind of coach, leading Adam off the mats. “I’ll walk you over. We’ll get Ronan’s shoulder looked at, too.” 

This is not good. Ronan and Adam just look at each other, and they know something has been planned. And that they’re at the beginning of the competition season and probably without a coach. 

“Who are you?” Ronan asks, when they’re out of earshot. “I don’t know who the fuck you are.” 

“Richard Gansey, but I prefer Gansey,” he says. “I’m a new assistant coach to the national team.” 

“Oh,” Adam says. “You’re young. How are you even coaching?”

“Yeah, Dick,” Ronan says. “What kind of nepotism do you have going on?” 

“I have lots of experience,” Gansey said. “I’ve been on the national team in England and I’ve helped coach there while injured. And I’m not that young—I’m twenty-five.” 

“Brett and Sam are both older than you,” Adam says. “And they’re on the team.” 

“Why’d you quit?” Ronan asks. “Did your body shit out early?”

“I like coaching more than competing. And I didn’t have a lot of good experiences,” Gansey admits. “It looks like you two are on your way to having your bodies self-destruct by twenty-five.” 

“Excuse you,” Ronan says, as someone is leading Adam to an exam table to pick at his hands. “I’ve only had one shoulder and one knee blow out.” 

“You should have had zero.” Gansey sounds completely convinced. “Every single one was preventable.” 

“Damn,” is all Adam says, is wincing as disinfectant is poured onto his hands. “He’s right, though.” 

“It doesn’t matter. Nationals is in two weeks and we probably don’t have a coach,” Ronan says, and Adam’s face is suddenly grim. 

It is grim. Some people in suits come in and talk to Adam and Ronan about Whelk, and they know that Whelk is about to get his ass banned. 

They go back to training, tumble as much as they can, and when it’s over, Bo pulls them to the side to talk it through. 

“We’re submitting a formal complaint. There’s been past allegations against Whelk, so he’s been suspended pending a hearing,” Bo says. That’s faster than USA Gym has moved on anything. Putting Bo in charge was a fucking godsend. “The hearing won’t be for a few months probably.”

“What the hell do we do? We don’t have a coach,” Adam gets out. “Nationals is soon and we don’t have a coach. The NCAA fall training stuff starts in August and the team doesn’t have a coach.” Adam doesn’t think the Aglionby assholes will be broken up about Whelk, but they’ll be broken up about their scholarships and tutors and shit disappearing. 

“The good news is we go straight from here to nationals. We have lots of general team coaches—we’ll have Gansey be your coach for paperwork and we’ll work with you and Calla and Declan to figure out what to do with Aglionby and a permanent decision,” Bo says.

“You have an opinion, though,” Adam says. “You know we’re not just going to join the OU boys.” 

“I don’t want you to join the OU boys. We have enough disasters on the team,” Bo says. “I want you to work with Gansey.”

“He’s a child. A literal child,” Adam says, can’t keep the anger out of his voice. “He’s inexperienced. I don’t trust him.”

“We have two weeks. I’ll have my eye on him the whole time. Give it a shot. That’s all I’m asking. I think he has a great future as a coach, and I think he can help both of you finally break through onto the world’s team.” With that, Bo stands up, and Adam knows the conversation is over. 

Ronan just looks at Adam. He knows how they both look, run down and hunted and how they can’t fit in with the frattiness, the light-hearted, overdone celebration of some of the other guys. Ronan knows that if they keep going like this, with Whelk, they have maybe one season or two before there’s injuries they can’t come back from. 

“Well, fuck.” Ronan takes Adam’s hand. They’ve survived years of Whelk. They can survive without him, too. “Guess we’re giving the child a try.”

:: ::

They’re having a team meeting. What the fuck. Adam, Gansey, Ronan, Blue, Declan, Seph, Calla, Maura, and Bo are all sitting in a circle in the park. The witches are eating this shit up.

“So. We’re going to try something new to help with goal-setting and focusing training,” Gansey says. “It can be hard to narrow in on things to improve when it’s not a good day in the gym. It happens. Or to find good things. But something good always happens—it doesn’t have to be in the gym. People call it different things, but I’ve most commonly heard this exercise called roses and thorns. You say your rose for the day and then your thorn.” 

“This is stupid,” Ronan says. “Like, this is the gayest thing I’ve done and I literally have sex with men.” 

Adam gives him a high five. 

“That’s the straightest thing we’ve done today,” Adam says.

“Including your tumbling, Mr. Twisties,” Ronan adds on, because he cannot help himself. 

“One aspect,” Gansey says, because he’s learned in the last twenty-four hours that he can’t engage with the tomfoolery or they’ll never get anything done. “Is that it has to be personal. It can’t be about anyone else. Or their twisting problems.” 

“I’ll go first so the idiots can see how to do it. Me and Seph do this every day,” Blue says, which promptly shuts Adam up, at least. “My rose today was having a clean bars routine. My thorn was not being able to fix my hands slipping on my vault block.” 

“Who would like to go next?” Gansey asks, and when Adam and Ronan both pretend to admire the mountains, he stares at Adam.

“Fine.” Adam rolls his eyes. He doesn’t know what to say, because training was a mess. He can’t do any of his best events right now, what the fuck is he supposed to say? “I had a good coffee this morning. I can’t land my fucking vault.” 

“Thank you for sharing, Adam.” Gansey is so fucking calm. Ronan admits that he’s happy his shoulder felt better training with the tape, and that he’s annoyed his Maltese on rings isn’t coming back as quick as he’d hoped. 

“So,” Bo says, “That’s enlightening. I know it’s only been a day, but I think a debrief is helpful to all parties to set some expectations.” 

Adam just nods. He lays down; not a second after his head is in Ronan’s lap are Ronan’s fingers carding through his hair. It’s been a long day. 

Gansey is just so… different. 

He tells you what he thinks, but he phrases it in a way that you can’t help but think that no matter what the mistake it’s going to be fixed. Everything is only a matter of time. He also isn’t a “do it until it’s right” coach, though. Gansey will break it down—if a move isn’t going right, they go back to the basics of the move, slowly build it up—and if things look unstable, they take a step back. 

Adam thinks at some point you just gotta stick them on an air track and have them throw it into the pit. 

“It feels slow,” Adam says. “Like we’re never going to throw skills if we keep going like this.” 

“Okay,” Bo says. “I’ll give Gansey a chance to explain his methods.” 

They talk. They talk a lot about feelings, and methods, and about Whelk. 

It doesn’t really matter. Calla and Declan like Gansey, and so does Bo. On a professional level, it’s Bo’s opinion that matters; if Bo thinks Gansey is the right option, that he can somehow take Adam and Ronan two weeks before Nationals and get them in world’s shape, then that’s it. They’ll do it. On a personal level, Calla liking Gansey is all that matters. Calla clocked Whelk as a bastard from the get-go, had tried to get rid of Whelk so many times, but Adam had clung on with bloodied fingertips because it was his only hope of making it to elite. If Calla thinks Gansey is the right option, it’s the only path forward. 

Adam thinks this is going to be a shitshow.

:: ::

Adam doesn’t take shit lying down. He looks at Bo, he looks at Gansey, and he steps up onto the podium at nationals. The only way he’s going to beat Lynch is if he throws the Liukin.

He throws the Liukin.

He catches it.

“I hate you so much,” Ronan says, as he hugs him. “Did you really have to connect it out of the other two? Bastard.” They’re both smiling.

:: ::

“Okay, guys, here’s our goals for the day,” Gansey says. “We’re only working rings, pommel, and floor today. We want to clean up the new skills.”

“Three clean routines?” Ronan guesses, cracks his neck and continues pushing down on Adam’s back to help him stretch out. “What’s the catch?” 

“We’re going to build up to routines. We’re working on the new skills first. First one to do it clean in its nearest context gets to post a video of the other.” Adam and Ronan don’t have their own social media that they actually use, so they aren’t really motivated by getting to post clean new skills on their own social media. 

They do really like posting videos of each other falling on the gym’s social media. 

By noon, there’s a video of Adam faceplanting off of the pommel horse, one of Ronan on the beam with the seven-year-old girls, and one of them both trying to kick each other while in handstands. 

“Good training day?” Blue asks, eating a sandwich with one hand and using a hand massager on her thigh with the other. “People really love the videos of you two being dumb during training.” 

“It’s okay. I’m still having issues transitioning out of the flares on pommel horse,” Adam says, chugs his gatorade. “But floor is feeling good on my knees and ankles.” 

That’s a lie.

Here’s the problem. His knee, the one that has the ACL tear from a few years back, has been bothering him. And his feet. He knows what stress fractures feel like, and he knows he’s got them building in his feet. But worlds are coming, and he can take time to heal after them. Or after the Olympics. 

It’s fine. It’s just a stress fracture. Everyone tumbles on a whole lot worse. 

But if Gansey knew, he’d be the type of coach to slow down, or even stop training all together. Adam would miss out on the world’s team. He can’t afford that. 

“Asshole keeps sticking a triple back. Who does that?” Ronan complains. “I think he should add a half twist.” 

“Don’t introduce the twisties back into his life,” Blue says. “Or he’ll never be able to do another one straight again.” 

“It might preserve his ankles better to add a half twist at the end,” Gansey inputs. “The landing forward would be easier on his knees and ankles.” 

“Let’s try it,” Adam says, because he’s itching to do something just a little bit stupid. “Imagine how people would lose their minds if I showed up to worlds with that.” 

“Just into the pit,” Ronan adds in. “We’ve been playing so nice today, Dick. We can have a little stupidity, as a treat.” 

“On the trampoline first,” Gansey gives in. “And you’re not landing it on the mat today. And we’re not making this a habit.” 

“Sure, Dad,” Adam says, cracks his neck and his knuckles and makes a run for it. 

He throws the new skill, and he knows if there was a mat in the pit he would have landed it. 

It’s what he does. He breathes, he sleeps, he does gymnastics. His ankles twinge a little, but he takes a few deep breaths and it all feels normal.

:: ::

“You’re walking weird.” It’s a week before they leave for Stuttgart, for the world championships. All three of them.

One of the best omens of elite gymnastics is making the team the year before the Olympics. 

“What about it?” Adam says, continues to walk weird across the gym. “I’m sore. We’re all sore.”

“Hustle it up,” Ronan calls from the edge of the training room. “Calla says you’re going first today, Adam.” 

Gansey is already sitting in there, tosses a gatorade at Adam and Blue as they walk in. Except Adam ends up with blue and Blue with red, so they just trade. 

“Hop up on the table,” Calla says. “I want to take a look at your knees and ankles.” 

“Who tattled?” Adam is looking at Ronan. 

“Everyone can see you’re walking weird,” Gansey says. “I’ve noticed an odd gait in your run ups to vaults and tumbles, too.” 

“Why didn’t you say something, then?” Adam has gotten more used to Gansey’s odd style. He hates talking about his feelings, but he does it because it makes it easier to walk into the gym the next day with a measured goal. Gansey’s style, however weird and backwards, has made him and Ronan stronger competitors and gymnasts. 

But it doesn’t mean Adam won’t put his career first.

“Would it have mattered?” Gansey responds, and Adam feels his face heat up. “What’s going on, Adam?”

“Do your rose and thorn shit.” That’s Ronan, who is currently shivering his way through his ice bath. 

“Thorn is easy—my ankles have just been a little tender from the increased training. That’s all,” Adam says. “Rose is that Ronan made us breakfast and didn’t set the house on fire.” 

“Love you too, babe,” Ronan responds. “My rose, if not for the lovely coffee made by my loving boyfriend,” because everything is a goddamn competition, “would be finally getting through a parallel bars routine without falling on my ass. My thorn is definitely my vault landing. I can’t stop it landing to the right and I don’t know why.” 

Calla prods at Adam’s ankle and he barely reigns in a reaction. 

“Was that tender?” Calla asks, because she basically raised him. She knows when Adam is in pain. 

“Only a little,” Adam says, tries to brush it off. What he gets instead is Calla intensely working on his ankles and knee for half an hour. 

“Adam, we need you to be honest,” Gansey says. “Are you hurting?” 

Adam takes a breath to lie, but he sees the look on Gansey’s face. 

Adam is good at judging faces. He was with Whelk since he was eight, and on the competition floor he could tell based on an eyebrow or a brief move of the lip if a mistake was just bad or if it was detrimental. He knows how to judge moods, when to try and placate and when it’s just better to shut up and take it. 

Gansey’s face is different. When they were on the floor at nationals, even after Adam pulled a dangerous stunt, Adam only ever saw three faces: concern, focus, and pride. He never has to worry about what Gansey is thinking, because he’ll say it, and he’ll explain it, and he’ll break it down and talk to you about it until the cows come home.

Right now, he’s all concern. It’s not concern about what Adam might do at world’s, about lost medals. It’s concern about Adam. 

“I know that you backing out of world’s isn’t an option,” Gansey continues, cleans some more chalk off of his glasses. “But we need to know if it’s hurting. We can scale back training to make world’s happen and deal with the fallout after, but we can’t do that if we don’t know what we’re working with.”

“I think I stress fractured at least my right foot,” is what Adam says. It’s honest, and he’s waiting for the anger to come from Gansey. 

There’s a moment of silence.

“Jesus fuck, Parrish,” Ronan says, but he takes Adam’s hand. 

“Okay,” Gansey says. “We can work with that. We’ll have a doctor take a look, and the only training you’ll be doing is into the pit and you are not throwing the new skill at world’s, but we can work with it.” 

So Adam goes to world’s with a stress fracture.

:: ::

The last day of the world championships brings the high bar final. The team event brings a disappointing as ever fourth place team finish, mostly because the frat boys can’t help but self-implode at first chance, but Adam finally snags his all-around bronze. And his parallel bars silver medal.

Ronan isn’t even that mad he was sixth in the all around, because he’s got his gold on rings. 

But they’re both exhausted. 

There’s something about competing six events at qualification and then again at team final and then again at all around finals and then having to do event finals that just hits like a train. 

“Turn the alarm off,” Ronan begs, throws the covers back over them both. “Gansey’s not lettin’ you train before the final, anyway.” 

“Need to get more ice for my foot,” Adam says. He knows he’s going to need time off before he goes into training for the big dream, the Olympics, but even as he hobbles down the hall Adam doesn’t really mind. He has one landing left on his feet. 

It’s the great part about swinging. He gets to fly and fly and fly, and if he’s lucky, he only hits the ground once. 

It’s also so worth it, to see Blue and Calla and Maura and Seph (and even Gansey) when the results roll in and it finally goes Adam’s way. He thinks back to the little kid doing somersaults who was living in a trailer and thinks to where is now, with them and Ronan. It’s the type of story NBC would eat the fuck up, if he ever decided to tell them.

“Uh. Parrish,” that’s Ronan, sticking his head out of the doorway. “We have a problem.” 

To the surprise of no one, that problem is Barrington Whelk. 

Adam and Ronan are an open secret of the gymnastics community. They keep it professional during training sessions open to the public, but their friends and teammates and the community at large knows they’re together. They’re not ashamed, but Adam and Ronan both hate their personal business being deemed news and didn’t want to give the media any kind of satisfaction in them being correct about their sick fascination with Adam and Ronan’s relationship. 

Barrington Whelk, having nothing to lose after being banned by USA Gymnastics, has decided to slip that little tidbit to the media. 

“Why now?” Adam asks. His foot is elevated, being iced, while Calla, Maura, Seph, Blue, Gansey, Declan, Bo, and Ronan manage to pace around their tiny German hotel room. It’s starting to feel clausterphobic. 

“Because he’s a dickwad.” That’s supplied by Bo. His phone rang so much that he just shut it off a few minutes ago. “Obviously, this situation ultimately falls down to you two. How you want to proceed is what we’ll do. You’ll have the full support of the organization even if I have to cut a few heads off to do it.” 

“Let me at the media.” Ronan sounds deadly serious. “I’ll make a statement.” 

“That’s a shitty idea,” Adam says immediately. He tugs at Ronan’s arm, gets him sitting on the bed with him, starts playing with Ronan’s hands. “He’ll scare poor Tim Daggett to death.” 

“That’s the plan,” Ronan confirms. “I can deal with it. You and Blue have finals today. That should be the focus.” 

“That ship has sailed,” Blue says. “Balance beam final is a game of chance anyway. I want to be there for you two.” 

Ronan just pulls out his phone. He taps at it for a few seconds, then shoves it back in his pocket.

“There. I dealt with it,” Ronan says. 

Adam just sighs. He doesn’t really care what happens now—it’s out there, there’s no changing it. The media will be a frenzy, but it always is about something or another. He just wants to live through one more routine and take a long nap. Preferably with Ronan. 

“What you did was post a picture of you and Adam on twitter and caption it, and I quote, _Whelk’s a bastard but he’s not wrong._ ” Declan lets out arguably the most tired sigh of the week. 

“Yup,” Ronan says. “You need more ice?” He’s talking only to Adam. 

Adam just nods.

He retweets the photo. It’s the first time either of them have done anything on twitter in eighteen months. Adam adds the side eye emoji and nothing else. 

“I’ll consider that dealt with,” Bo inputs. “I’ll tell the media to fuck off and do my best to keep Lynch away from them today. How are you feeling?” 

“Exhausted. Think I have one routine left in me this season and that’s it,” Adam admits. “But come New Year’s it’ll be all about Tokyo.” 

“If we can hold off on Tokyo until the New Year I’ll take it as a win,” Gansey says. “We should be heading over to the arena soon. If it’s too much today, we can always withdraw. I don’t care about how it looks—if your foot is hurting or if what Whelk pulled was too much, we can pull out of the final.” 

“We’ll support you whatever your choice,” Calla adds. 

“What are you going to do if I pull a Liukin again?” Is all Adam responds with. 

He meant it. He has one routine left in him this year.

:: ::

Adam’s foot hurts to point, as he’s swinging around the bar. It’s distracting; he’s thinking about it as he’s pirouetting, as he’s doing his big three in a row releases—laid out full twisting double, full twisting double, Liukin—and he knows something bad is going to happen if he lands on his feet.

Ronan is on the floor with Gansey. As Adam is just swinging around, getting ready to dismount, he looks at Ronan. And he knows he’s about to try something crazy. 

He flies high for his dismount, but shuffles his foot out in front so he doesn’t land on it. 

He sticks the landing on his left foot only.

:: ::

“We literally got outed and the most gifable moment was you landing on one foot? How is that fair.” Ronan is lifting Adam off of the podium, but he’s grinning.

“Sucks to suck,” is all Adam can say. He’s winded, and he’s fucking exhausted, and his foot hurts like a fucking bitch. 

“Wait holy shit, you won.” And then there’s Ronan, and Gansey is crying. Why is Gansey crying?

Adam doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to get Gansey through Tokyo in one emotional piece. 

He’ll take this win where he can get it.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry if this made absolutely no sense tell me what you thought here or over @thoseunheard on tumblr. 
> 
> i have something else i am about 2/3 of the way through writing that i want to post in the next two weeks if y'all are into it—my very first iteration of the witches as moms!au was one where niall was alive and basically ruins adams life to try and control ronan. lmk if you want that or something else bc in like two weeks i move and start grad school and life gets crazy again!


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